We explore other labyrinthine neighborhoods near the Saigon River. We easily get lost trying to find our way out. A couple of kids follow us for a little while. We speak a few words of English with them and they giggle and laugh like they were playing with a Tickle Me Elmo doll. They think it’s funny to help us find our way out of the huge solid block of alleyways, especially where the overhead passage is so low Robert has to duck practically down to the waist to get by. We are charmed by them. They don’t want anything from us other than a few minutes of companionship.
When we’re done exploring markets we decide to hire a cyclo to take us back to District 1. Cyclos are modernized rickshaws, three wheeled pedal vehicles with a basket seat in front for passengers. It’s not uncommon to see two people in the front of a cyclo, but it’s a pretty tight fit. We try to negotiate a price with the flock of cyclo drivers who want our business. Most of them want us to take two drivers, but we want to squeeze into one so we hold out. They poke Robert in the stomach. “Too fat,” they tell him. The Vietnamese don’t mince words. But we are undaunted. We know that eventually someone will offer to sell us what we want, however unrecommended the experience might be.
Robert isn’t what I would call fat, but he’s tall even by American standards, which makes him only slightly smaller than an elephant to the Vietnamese. It’s definitely a squeeze once we find a driver willing to take us both. People point and laugh at us as we make our way slowly along the streets. The old man pedaling sweats in the afternoon heat. We feel guilty every time there’s the slightest incline in the road. We’re happy to stop at the Cau Ong Lanh market on the way back to put him out of his misery and so that I can buy some clay cooking pots. I’ve gone crazy here for clay pot fish, clay pot chicken, clay pot everything. I already have a clay pot at home, lovingly purchased for about $30 from an upscale cooking store. At Cau Ong Lanh market they are two for a dollar. I buy two and would take more but I know I’ll be lugging them in my carry-on if I ever go back to America.
- - - - -
One more night at the Continental, then it’s time to head north up the long, long coastline back to Hanoi. We buy two open bus tour tickets to Hue, about the halfway point, figuring that we will probably take a plane the rest of the way from there. I had originally wanted to take the train, on the theory that trains tend to pass through more beautiful countryside than highways. People settle near highways, but train tracks are mostly left in peace.
Unfortunately, the trains only run at night. That saves tourists the cost of a hotel room but robs us of our ability to enjoy the scenery. The bus runs during the day, and our open tour tickets allow us to get off any place we like and then get back on again whenever we’re ready to move on. That suits us fine and we settle into the first leg excited about exploring the famous beaches around Mui Ne and Nha Trang, and the ancient cities of Hoi An and Hue.
We’ve gone far enough from Saigon for the bus to start getting quiet, but not so far that we’ve gotten our a/c just right when I see a mile marker: 950 km, Hue.
“Look at that,” I say to Robert. “We’ve only got about a thousand kilometers to go. A million meters. Makes it sound kind of far when you say it like that, doesn’t it?”
“Well, at least Mui Ne is only five hours,” he says.
Only five hours. On a bus. But I’m up for it. I’ve been eager to see Mui Ne since Mathew and Andrew, the Australians I met in Hanoi, raved about it. “Mui Ne is quiet and clean,” they said. “It’s a fishing village. People won’t line up on the beach trying to sell you things.” It would be nice to have a break from that.
“Nha Trang is like Las Vegas on the beach,” Mathew said. “Not that I’ve ever been to Las Vegas, but you know what I mean.” I did. People had been telling me the same thing since I arrived… Nha Trang is a party town and Mui Ne is where you go if you want to relax on the beach. I want to relax on the beach. Robert’s easy so he lets me decide.
Mui Ne is every bit as wonderful as the Australians said. Other than finding some suspicious looking debris in the water, we are perfectly happy. The bungalows Mathew recommended are full so we wander the main drag, a red dirt road, looking for a place to stay. The Bien Xanh (Blue Ocean) resort is exactly what we’re looking for. A clean strip of private beach. A well tended tropical garden. A swimming pool filled to the brim with a full bar in the pool, actually in the swimming pool, bar stools submerged so you don’t dry off, god forbid, while sipping your pina colada. Made with fresh pineapple and coconut, of course. We love it.
There’s just one problem. The only sea view bungalow left has just one bed. Hmm, we’ll be traveling together for two weeks. We were bound to run into this sometime. The porter who shows us the room can’t tell if we’re just friends or a couple that’s been fighting. Why do we want two beds? Never mind. I notice a pair of flat, cushioned deck chairs on the patio. “That’s where I want to sleep anyway,” I say. “Let’s take it.”
It is fantastic to be lulled to sleep by the irregular sound of sea waves coming ashore, to wake up at 3:30 in the morning to the sound of the first early fishing boats launching from the same beach we would laze on at 3:30 that afternoon. By then, the fishermen would be long back on shore, the day’s haul collected, sorted and carried away in baskets by the ground crew (mostly women), nets repaired and mended and neatly folded for the next day, boats strengthened, mended, resealed, gear stowed and left on the beach well before the average tourist has finished his buffet breakfast.
By 5:00 a.m. the cove is full of fishing vessels of all types and sizes, from two-man bamboo bowls that dance on the surface with no keel and no rudder, to traditional boat-shaped rigs with chugging motors straining to pull yards of submerged net and fish behind them.
At a few minutes before six the sun begins to light up the sky. I am rarely up early enough to watch a sunrise and have probably never in my life watched one over an ocean. It is fascinating to see what is for me a sunset in reverse. At first the darkness is barely broken by a few rays, just enough to wake me up. Then the rays become more distinct and colors begin to dance across the sky and reflect back down into the water… pastel pinks and blues, bold orange, first reflecting on the cloud layers from the bottom, then climbing to play with them on an equal footing, reflecting lavender, pink and blue off the surface of the water below, making first silhouettes of the boats far out from shore then, as the minutes pass, highlighting them in clearer detail.
Faces become distinct and shadowy figures on the beach become shore based fishermen using pure physical force to try to haul in their catch.
These fishermen who haul their catch in manually from the shore must be the least prosperous of all. If they had a boat they would use it, I think. Pulling their net in from the shore is hard work. It takes ten men just to pull at the rope as they drag their net down the shoreline. They are at the mercy of motorboats that might pass by and cut their lines. The only method they seem to have for avoiding that, other than relying on the boat captains to recognize where their net is and go around it, is to yell and wave their hats out toward the sea to get the boaters’ attention. That’s how this group of a dozen men attempts to keep their lines from being cut when they see a boat coming too close, prop blades heading straight for their only source of income.
When they see that a bladed boat is going through anyway, they relax their hold on the rope and hope that the net sinks enough to get out of the way. Sometimes that works and sometimes it doesn’t.
We watch a morning’s drama unfold as the shore crew of about a dozen pulls at a line to draw their submerged net through the shallow water close to shore. Eventually, one of the criss crossing boats ignores them. They somehow miss it and all of a sudden they are all falling backwards at the same time, indicating that whatever they’d been pulling on was no longer attached.
All but one of them lines up along the shore and yells at the boat. Without hesitation, one throws off his hat and shirt and dives in to go after his net. The entire catch of their day, not to mention the net itself – probably the only piece of capital equipment they have – is at stake. Now the guys on shore are motioning and yelling for the boat to look out, not just for the net but for the man on his way out to save it, his tiny bobbing head swimming fast out into the ocean. Robert and I are glued to the set. The man swims faster than I’ve ever seen a human being propel himself against the waves. The boat seems to be on a collision course with him but it’s not budging either.
With the skill of a craftsman he swims right out to where the net should be, heading straight towards the boat, a man on a mission and not appearing to question that the boat will give way to him. He disappears under the surface once, then again for much longer, then pops back up and turns his attention back to shore. He raises one hand up and yells for his companions.
They quickly jump back to their positions along the rope and pull. It holds. They are back in business. The man swims back, all in a day’s work. No accolades, no pats on the back. He just shakes the sand out of his hat and gets back to the work of slowly, laboriously, pulling their net through the current. Maybe this is a rare occurrence. Maybe this drama plays out every day. Maybe the men switch off who gets to swim out to re-tie their net. We don’t know. To us, this fisherman is a hero. To me he is an adventurer even though he has probably never been more than ten miles from the town where he was born.
- - - - -
I want to take a ride in one of the unstable looking bowl boats. They look a lot like the cereal bowls I used to have in my kitchen cupboard, except that my cereal bowls were ceramic and these boats seem to be made from woven coconut palm. No one will take me because a typhoon is heading toward the Philippines and the Vietnamese government has issued a typhoon warning to everyone along the eastern coastline. Local fishermen can still operate, but all ships at sea are supposed to sail back to dock. Coastal towns are supposed to have their emergency plans ready to go. Tour boats have all been grounded. No one will take me for a ride in their boat even though I offer to pay them, or as it turns out because I offer to pay them.
There seems to be widespread agreement among the Vietnamese that getting in trouble with the police is a really bad thing. If the government says no tour boats will sail, then the tour boats stay put. The receptionist at Bien Xanh is evasive. “The small boats?” she asks. “Not for tourists. But no one is supposed to take tourists on boats today. They will get in trouble.” She pauses. “Maybe. Maybe for $40 on the small boat. But I don’t think you will find someone today.”
I forget about it for the moment, but later, when Robert and I are tromping through empty seashells and dried sea carcasses along the harbor where all the bowl boats unload, I decide to try again. A couple of fishermen in a regular boat offer to take me, but I motion that it’s the bamboo bowl I want to try out, not a regular fishing vessel. They have a brief conversation with someone and come back ready to take me for a ride in a bowl boat. It’s not their boat, though, that is clear. I’m not sure they even know how to row it. That’s not what I want.
The further down the shore we get the more lawless the place feels. People live here in tiny mud and bamboo huts just yards away from the water’s edge. They are at work all around us… hauling, sorting and processing the day’s catch. Mending boats and nets. I get the impression that this part of town is self-governing… people work out their rules and their problems on their own. Maybe I will find someone here who is willing to take me boating in a bamboo bowl.
We step carefully around hundreds of trays of anchovy size fish drying in the sun to make crunchy fish snacks. A kid in his teens is moving supplies to shore in a pretty bamboo bowl boat. There is only one oar on a bowl boat. You scoop it right then left, back and forth, with a steady thwack thwack rhythm as the oar handle hits its wooden support. The bowl moves forward amazingly quickly for such a simple mechanism. This kid seems like he knows what he’s doing, so when he beaches his boat and walks to a hut I take the opportunity to ask him if he will take me for a ride. I know I am interrupting his work day so I make sure he knows I am willing to pay for it.
“No,” he says to the dollars I hold out to him. But he gets in the boat anyway and motions for me to do the same. I climb in and try to steady myself. Did I expect there to be seats in a floating cereal bowl? What was I thinking? My head goes below the rim as I sit cross-legged on the floor, then a small hand taps me on the shoulder. Up here, my captain’s friend motions to me, patting on the rim of the bowl. I move up and we row out to the edge of the harbor… thwack thwack… thwack thwack… thwack thwack… moving briskly between hundreds of moored boats where people live and work. Some of them wave hello and joke with the kid about his passenger. A little boy off to my left is sitting naked at the edge of his floating home. He surprises me by taking a dump into the water before I have time to look away. Maybe I won’t go for that afternoon swim in the ocean after all, I decide. Our swimming pool is looking better all the time.
It doesn’t look that hard to paddle so I ask if I can give it a try. The kid hands me the oar and immediately we stop moving forward. Thwa thw… thw… thw…. For a few strokes in a row I manage to get the boat to move backwards, but I can’t for the life of me get it to move forward again. Mostly I just spin us around in a circle.
Watching me try to row is good for some laughs, but before long the kid helps me out. We alternate rowing on the way back. Every time it’s my turn our momentum slows considerably. Robert shoots a hundred pictures from the shore. He’s probably secretly wishing I would fall in. What a great shot that would make! But the nice kid brings me safely back to shore, nice and dry and good as new. I try again to give him some cash for his trouble but he waves it away with a smile. Now I feel really guilty. “He was just taking someone for a ride,” Robert says. “If you pay him, then it’s too much like a tour. Maybe he would get in trouble.”
“I hope he doesn’t get in trouble,” I say. I look back. He’s still smiling at me and waving good bye. “He’s such a nice kid. I probably interrupted his lunch break, or a rest, or if nothing else I at least put him behind schedule. I wish I could have given him something.”
“Who keeps a schedule in Vietnam?” Robert says. “He got to take the tourist out for a ride and watch her paddle around in circles. He’s happy. He’ll be the talk of the village.” I look back one more time and now the kid is back at work loading his bowl with supplies. I hope Robert is right.
- - - - -
Aside from the fishing village, Mui Ne is known for its giant yellow and white sand dunes and its red rock formations. Robert and I arrange for a motorbike tour of the sand dunes and the Sedona-like red rocks, followed by dinner at a seafood restaurant recommended by the Australians. Their suggestions have been great so far so we trust them. Dung Su is a locals restaurant at the edge of Mui Ne where you choose your meal live while it still swims in the tank, then eat it at long simple tables on a covered deck extending out over the crashing ocean.
We wait for the sun to set at the great yellow sand dune. It’s so overcast we can’t tell where the sun is at all so we go by clock time, which defeats the whole purpose of watching a sunset, but what can we do. Sunset should be sometime around 5:30. Children dig toboggan trails in the sand and push tourists down the dunes for a few pennies a shot. I go for a few rides, then start playing tag with them instead. Robert takes photographs of me getting dirtier and dirtier as the minutes go by. I get carried away with the moment and try somersaulting down the sand dune, something I haven’t done in years and now I remember why. It takes a while before I can stand up without falling right back down again.
We agree to invite our motorbike drivers, Nam and Vi, to have dinner with us. They are hesitant to accept at first, maybe not sure they understand. Do we want them to show us what to do with our food? Are we asking them to wait outside so we don’t get stuck here in the rain without a ride back? To that they readily agree even though the sky is clearly about to let loose with a major thunderstorm. We eventually manage to convince them that we want their companionship, not their service. We just want them to eat with us.
We pick out our seafood together, four crabs, a barracuda and a handful of sea snails. For some reason, I am the only one who wants to try the snails. The food is cooked plain and simple… no sauce or garnish, just chili salt and lime to squeeze into a paste and dip the fish into. The thunderstorm is in full swing now. Rain pounds the roof and the sea is tearing itself apart. Sea foam splashes up from the ocean onto our table and into my beer. Nam and Vi break the crab open, even our pieces, and help us find the meat because they really are much better at it than we are. Nam gets me to try the squishy gross stuff inside the crab’s head, but I doubt I’ll ever like it.
We are curious about their families, their lives here in Mui Ne. Vi has two children, Nam only has one but he also has his parents to care for. His only other sibling lives far north, in Nha Trang. They have lived in Mui Ne all their lives and are happy to earn two and a half to three million dong a month, about $175, as motorbike drivers. Nam says he used to work in a restaurant and make only two million per month working seven days a week. “Driving a motorbike much better,” he says. “I spend time with my family. I not so tired all the time.”
After dinner they give us rides back to our bungalow. The rain is heavy and bursts of lightning turn the sides of the road into broad daylight. Vi asks if he can put his cell phone in my backpack to keep it dry. As we leave them they grasp our hands, especially Nam, to say thank you. We really enjoyed their company at dinner and for me, at least, it is the thank you of a friend, not a driver, not just the thank you of someone glad to have made five bucks that day taking us to the sand dunes. I hope it is the same for them.
That night I sleep well in my warm, flat deck chair with rain falling on top of a layer of thatch so thick I don’t even worry about getting wet. It is a balmy night with waves crashing just thirty yards away, a few boats still out dragging their nets, their lights burning gently in the distance, shining through the coconut palms. It is a lonely place, but one at least where I can imagine….
- - - - -
The topography and flora change dramatically as we make our way by bus up the country. Mui Ne’s tropical beaches and coconut palms give way to scratchy scrub just inland and red sandy earth with rocky hills and arid valleys like the Palm Desert area of California. Further north we find shallow vegetation marred by patches of craggy rock. No good for farming and too rocky for cows or water buffalo. Vietnam is not a land of fleece and feta but we do find a few flocks of sheep and goats here. Barely inland we even start to see some cactus and what look like prickly pears, and orchards of dragon fruit that we mistake for aloe. Though this land is beautiful in its own way, much of it is inhospitable. Even the fishermen are fewer and farther between.
There isn’t much traffic on this stretch of Highway 1 but the buses still pass and honk at each other as often as they can. Vietnamese drivers get a bad rap for the way they use their horns. It’s really a matter of interpretation, though. In America, honking your horn at someone usually means something like, “Get out of my way, asshole!” or “Go back to driving school, you moron!” At best it means, “Hey, you idiot, pay attention… the light’s green!”
That’s not what it means in Vietnam. In Vietnam, honking your horn is just a way to let the person in front of you know you’re there. Drivers don’t have the luxury of paying attention to what is behind them… they’re too busy looking ahead, dodging motorbikes going in the wrong direction, watching out for people about to turn without signaling, figuring out who is going to run the red light and who is not, avoiding all the wide loads and slow moving vehicles that have so much momentum they are incapable of stopping even if they wanted to.
With so much to notice ahead, most drivers just don’t pay any attention at all to what might be happening behind them. That, in fact, seems to be the cardinal rule of driving in Vietnam: never look behind you. That means drivers will dodge erratically right, left, any way necessary to avoid the maze of vehicles ahead. How do they avoid dodging right into the one behind them? They listen for the horn. When a driver honks his horn in Vietnam, all he’s saying is, “I’m here. I’m close. No sudden movements in this direction or I may hit you.” To us the horn is noise, aggression, insult. But to the Vietnamese, the horn just means “I care.”
- - - - -
Nha Trang feels just like Mathew said. Las Vegas on the beach, at least the part we see. Admittedly, that isn’t much. We don’t give Nha Trang a chance. We jump right back on the bus for the next leg to the ancient city of Hoi An. Another ten hours on the bus, and overnight this time… a hideous proposition, but we survive.
When we get to Hoi An the next morning, Robert and I discover what must be the best hotel in the city, which makes it one of the best hotels in Vietnam, and for only $45 a night it is certainly the best deal. Friendly staff, lush courtyard, a fabulous restaurant melding French and Vietnamese flavors and décor, rose petals and flowers tastefully strewn around our room. We instantly fall in love with the Ha An Hotel. Robert reminds me of my old friend Greg in how he appreciates things. If Greg were still alive he would love the Ha An too. He would be sensitive to the way people in Vietnam work so hard for so little, just like Robert is. He would get a kick out of the little kids who follow us around just to say “hello” then run away giggling. We would all get drunk together on La Rue beer, which apparently is only sold in Hoi An. Greg would agree with me and Robert that La Rue is the best beer in Vietnam and should be sold everywhere.
We like Hoi An a lot. We extend our stay to three days because we can’t eat fast enough to try everything in two. We do all the standard tourist things here: eating, drinking, shopping, wandering, looking at ancient houses, crawling through the busy market. We take a bus tour to the Cham ruins at My Son. These are some of the oldest structures in Vietnam, more than one thousand years old and some are still standing, though American bombs razed the best structures to the ground.
Everything at My Son looks phallic. Apparently, the Cham people were obsessed with sex. I believe him when our guide tells us that kissing the lingam (a large phallic stone) is supposed to make you lucky in love. Actually, the real sacred act is to pour a bowl of water from the altar on the tip of the lingam and then capture it as it drains out of the yoni (the female part) that the lingam rests on. After the water has passed over both sacred objects you drink it. Then you will be lucky in love. Or in bed. It’s also supposed to make you strong. The three goals seem to be all wrapped up in one. Somewhere along the way, the local People’s Committee must have decided that kissing the phallus was safer for visitors than drinking altar water. It’s like kissing the Blarney Stone in Ireland, only more embarrassing. Of course, I have to try.
Robert takes two pictures of me kissing the phallus. In the first one I look like I’m turning into a werewolf. Some object behind me makes it look like I am growing huge bushy eyebrows. I also have a slightly depraved look on my face. Note to self: never make direct eye contact from this position. Now I’m really embarrassed. Before taking the second photo Robert reminds me to look like I am enjoying myself… I comply and, well, let’s just say that I won’t be posting that one to my website. My students might see it.
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